


Chiefly Responsible for Discipline

by rsadelle



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: BDSM, Impact Play, M/M, Power Dynamics, Spanking, Translation Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 17:29:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6575707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rsadelle/pseuds/rsadelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Are you saying I'll get better results if I put you under the lash when you don't return your equipment?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chiefly Responsible for Discipline

**Author's Note:**

> This story comes from the following conversation:
> 
> Lake: I want something where James like, lies on the floor with his drink and lazes about and tells Q what pirate quartermasters were responsible for: <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quartermaster>
> 
> Me: Yes! I would read that. (And also the kinky version where he puts an emphasis on the quartermaster's role in dispensing discipline.)

"Do you know," Bond says, "in the golden age of piracy, the quartermaster on the pirate ship was an elected position, and second only to the captain? The quartermaster could even overrule the captain, when not on a mission, as it were."

"I don't even know what you're doing here." Q glances up from the bench in his home workshop - a space that overlaps with his living room - to where Bond is sprawled on the floor, back against the sofa, bottle on the floor next to him, glass cradled in his hands. "Or where you got the scotch." It certainly wasn't in Q's flat before Bond was.

Bond, predictably, ignores him and goes on. "The quartermaster was also responsible for discipline on the ship."

"Mmm," Q says, distracted as he solders a chip into place. "Are you saying I'll get better results if I put you under the lash when you don't return your equipment?"

There is a loaded silence from the other half of the room, and Q looks up from his work to regard Bond, who is looking directly at him, nearly neutral expression on his face, something dark and serious in his eyes.

"I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you," Q says, "as I have no experience with a whip."

"I'm sure the quartermaster didn't need to mete out punishment himself."

Before he can stop himself, Q thinks of three agents, one admin, and one senior member of Q Branch who could carry out the actual task.

"There's always your hand if you prefer the personal touch." Bond tosses back the rest of his drink and refills it from the bottle.

It seems somehow unfair that other people are offered drinks when Bond propositions them.

Q returns to his work, letting himself appear outwardly uninvolved. "If you want me to spank you, you could ask."

"Punishments ought to be earned, don't you think?"

"Mmm, perhaps," Q concedes. He doesn't prolong the conversation, but the thought lingers, as does the list of people who could mete out harsher punishments on his behalf.

*

Bond returns from a mission without anything Q sent him into the field with.

Q faces him down across the table in Q Branch. "You had a perfectly successful mission with no explosions and no extraneous deaths and somehow lost all of your equipment."

"Can't imagine where it's got to." Bond holds Q's eyes. It's a challenge.

Q says, "Come with me," and turns without waiting to see if Bond will follow. "Matthew," he calls.

Senior member of Q Branch, he decided, was the way to go. Used to keeping secrets, far more readily available than an agent, more loyal to him personally than an admin.

Q takes them to a specific testing room, one designated to be available for the quartermaster's use at all times, and lets them in.

"Not going for the personal touch?" Bond asks.

"I prefer to delegate." Q locks the door and cuts all surveillance on the room before he presses his hand to a storage cupboard coded only to his palm print. "Matthew knows what he's doing."

"I trust you wouldn't delegate this to anyone who didn't."

The trust should mean this won't go quite as terribly as it possibly could.

The cupboard is so far empty but for one thing: a cat o' nine tails. Q's money, but Matthew's expertise, and it's lovely, even to Q's eyes. Well balanced, supple leather, sharp knots.

Q hands it to Matthew, who tests it in his hand, swings it a bit, and nods at Q.

"How many?" Matthew asks.

They talked about this too, when Q talked to him about this.

"He did lose all of his equipment." Q eyes Bond. "Fifteen."

Matthew nods and turns to Bond. "Shirt off. Hands against the wall."

Bond looks at Q as he strips off his jacket and shirt. He folds them neatly across the bench and turns to the wall. He puts his hands on the wall above his head. It makes the stretch of his back seem even longer.

"I assume you can stay still on your own," Matthew says.

"Yes."

"Good. Don't move."

"You'll need to count them," Q says.

Bond nods, then returns to perfect stillness.

Matthew swings the flogger a few more times, warming up, and then he takes it to Bond's back.

Q crosses his arms over his chest and watches the flogger hit Bond's skin and Bond count steadily to fifteen. Bond isn't even breathing heavily by the time they're done - Matthew seems more affected than he does - but his back has turned red where the flogger hit him.

Q steps forward and runs his hand down Bond's back to feel the heat of it.

Bond lets out a gasp, and his head drops. Looking at the bend of his neck, Q understands everything about why someone would want to do this.

Q bends close. "I think you've forgotten something in this calculation."

Bond turns his head to look at him. His eyes are dark; Q wants to see them like this always. "What's that?"

"You get punished when you disobey, but you may get rewarded when you behave." Q steps back. "Put your shirt on."

There's a slow, dazed quality to Bond's movements as he dresses. His gaze lacks its usual sharpness. His cock is hard enough to be seen through his trousers.

Q tears his eyes away - he's seen enough to etch the sight into his memory - and takes the flogger from Matthew to store it in its cupboard.

He turns on the surveillance to the room and gestures Bond and Matthew out of it.

"Come with me," Q orders Bond.

Bond follows him to his office, half a step behind him the whole way.

Q gestures at a chair. "Sit." He's watching, so he sees Bond's glance at the floor. Tempting, but not possible. "As lax as MI6 is on the subject of interpersonal relationships, I think having an agent kneeling at my feet is bound to lead to the sort of questions and discipline we'd prefer to avoid. Sit."

Bond sits, back straight and never once coming in contact with the back of the chair.

Q has paperwork that needs doing, and that's not so absorbing that he can't keep one eye on Bond as he does it. There are things he needs behind Bond, nothing urgent, but it gives him an excuse, after they've been there for a while, to get up, and to run a hand down Bond's back as he passes him.

"Does it hurt?" he asks when his touch garners a low hiss from Bond.

"Exquisitely." The look Bond gives him is another thing that makes Q understand, intimately, why people do this.

He doesn't get any actual work done for at least twenty minutes, and by the time someone comes to fetch him to attend to some more urgent crisis, his paperwork is only half done.

Bond's eyes are more aware, his composure nearly restored.

Q squeezes his shoulder, making sure to dig his fingers into where he knows there's a red mark from the whip, on his way out of the room.

When he next returns to his office, everything he sent Bond with on his mission is laid out neatly in the center of his desk.

*

They develop a system. Q doesn't punish unavoidable loss or destruction of equipment. Carelessness or Bond's smirking assertion that he doesn't have anything to return gets him a punishment delivered by Matthew at Q's direction.

Then there's a mission where Bond crushes his earpiece under his heel for no good mission related reason and returns to tell Q he has no equipment to check back in.

Q nods, mouth pressed into a straight line. "Bond, Matthew, come with me."

There's a spark in Matthew's eye that says he's looking forward to this. Maybe it's time for Q to speak with him again and ensure he's not growing so bored with their usual routine that he wants to end his part in their arrangement.

"Deliberate destruction of my equipment," Q says when they're locked into his testing room with the surveillance turned off, "and a failure to return the rest. Twenty-five lashes for that." He nods at Matthew, who directs Bond to take off his shirt and stand against the wall.

They make Bond wait, watching the tension tighten his shoulders. He doesn't move.

Q nods to Matthew when Bond presses his hands harder into the wall, a tell, Q guesses, that he's working very hard not to do something else with his hands.

Bond gasps at the first hit, but recovers quickly and says, "One," perfectly evenly.

There's a steady cadence of flogger meeting skin, punctuated by Bond's calmly pronounced numbers. Matthew doesn't change the rhythm, but Q can see that the last few are harder hits than the ones before. They have to hurt on skin that's already been hit over and over again.

At "Twenty-five," Bond's breath comes out in gasps, heavy enough to move his shoulders.

Q dismisses Matthew from his attention and strides forward to Bond. His back and the heaving of his breath are too tempting. Q lays himself all along it. He lines himself up so the buttons of his cardigan are in a row down Bond's unmarked spine, and reaches his hands up to hold Bond's wrists to the wall. He's hard, and Bond will know it with as closely as they're pressed together.

Bond's body twitches against him, and then he falls still.

"Deliberate destruction of my equipment," Q says. "I'm rather vexed about that."

Bond makes no sound, but bows his head.

The vulnerable back of his neck is far too tempting for Q to resist. Q presses a single, soft kiss to it, waits long enough to feel Bond shiver, and then steps back.

"Get dressed, Bond. I've work to do."

Matthew brings Q the flogger to put away and murmurs, both of them keeping an eye on Bond, "He does take it beautifully."

"Not tired of this arrangement then?"

"Not at all," Matthew says. "I'm happy to dispense his discipline whenever you like."

Q nods. "Good man."

There are too many active missions for Q to hide in his office with paperwork afterward. He leads Bond to his pair of tables in the center of the Branch.

"Stay," Q tells Bond. "An experienced observer can be an asset to us." Going by the look in Bond's eyes, he's not going to be observing much for a while, but it gives an excuse to the rest of the room for Bond's continued presence.

Bond places himself where Q has to keep walking around him to get to what he needs. Every time he does, Q runs a hand down Bond's back, and Bond reacts to it enough to be felt but not enough to be seen.

*

Bond returns from a mission and reports not to Q Branch but to Q's flat. Q takes it in stride and greets him with an even, "Bond," just as he would in Q Branch.

"Quartermaster." Bond places a box in an empty spot on Q's workbench.

Q recognizes the box as the one he gave to Bond at the beginning of his mission. He opens it to find the gun, radio, and USB drive he issued to Bond, all of them nestled neatly into the foam. Q takes them each out and turns them over to find that Bond hasn't placed them in a manner meant to hide damage.

"All in one piece and in working order," Bond says.

"Well done," Q says.

Bond leans into Q's space. "You did say something about a reward for good behavior."

"That I did," Q says. He's had time to think about it, so he doesn't hesitate. "I think you've earned the personal touch." He gestures sharply. "Come with me."

Bond follows him into the bedroom.

"Clothes off," Q says. "You can put them over the chair." He stands back, arms crossed over his chest, face as impassive as he can make it, and watches Bond undress.

Bond's movements are even, but not showy. He's gorgeous to watch, and he stands still after he's done, while Q walks around him. It's the first time Q's gotten to look at him like this. He goes slowly, not quite drinking in his fill, but taking in enough to hold him over for now.

Q sits on the edge of the bed, making Bond wait while he gets comfortable. "Over my lap."

Bond lays himself out without protest, graceful even in the face of what is a somewhat awkward movement.

Q rests his hand on the curve of Bond's arse. "Tell me when you'd like me to stop and fuck you instead."

Bond twists his head to look at him, and Q can almost see him bite back his instinctive urge to say he's ready for that now and remember that this is what he wants.

Q rubs Bond's arse, getting a feel for the skin and muscle. "And Bond, this is a reward, not a punishment. You needn't count nor stay still and quiet."

He lifts his hand and brings it down in a slap that's louder than it is forceful. That's just the first one. He makes them harder as he gets used to the rhythm of it, and Bond reacts to it when he does. It's not like when Matthew dispenses punishment. Bond gasps and moans and moves, arching into Q's hand and rubbing his hardening cock against Q's thigh.

Q switches hands to keep from making just one of them sore, and the change gets Bond making more noise.

Q stops when Bond says, gasps, asks, "Fuck me."

Q pushes Bond off of his lap, carefully enough that Bond can catch himself and stand instead of tumbling to the floor. "Bend over," Q orders, "hands on the bed." Bond does as he's told. His arseis mottled pink and red from Q's hands.

Q unzips his trousers, takes out his cock, and makes quick work of lube and a condom. Bond will want it to burn.

The noises Bond makes when Q gets his cock in him sound like they're being pushed out of him with every thrust. They're gorgeous.

Q leans over Bond to get a better angle to hear them, and to make sure Bond knows he's still mostly clothed. Then he reaches around and takes Bond's cock in his hand.

"Q." The single letter of his name sounds like it's being dragged out of Bond.

"This is a reward," Q says. "You've earned the personal touch." He strokes Bond's cock, a few easy strokes of his hand to get a feel for the shape and weight of it, then harder, faster. It's the same power he gets from watching Matthew mete out punishments, but this time he gets to feel Bond tight around his cock and hard in his hand. He presses his mouth to the back of Bond's neck, tasting his skin and breathing him in while he fucks him.

He can feel Bond winding himself tighter and tighter under him, and Bond's hips jerk when Q scrapes the fingernails of his free hand over Bond's reddened arse.

"This is a reward," Q says again. "That means you get to come, James."

Bond gasps when Q uses his name, and comes when Q thrusts harshly into him while digging his fingers into the red skin of his arse.

Q lets go of his control and thrusts uncoordinated and erratic into Bond. Coming is all the sweeter for how often he's gotten hard watching Bond being punished without getting to come.

Q pulls out of Bond and leaves him panting and bent over the bed while he disposes of the condom, cleans himself up, and wets a flannel to use on Bond.

"Into bed," Q says when Bond's clean enough to be admitted to his bed.

When Bond looks like he's about to protest, Q pins him with a look. "Don't disobey me. I'd hate to have to punish you now."

Bond gets into Q's bed then, and only gasps a little when Q pushes him over onto his back.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes," Bond says with smug satisfaction.

He looks lovely in Q's bed, but Q imagines he could be even lovelier. "Want it to hurt more?"

Bond's eyes light up. "What did you have in mind?"

"You brought back all your equipment intact," Q says. "Surely that deserves all the reward I can give you." He scrapes his teeth over Bond's shoulder, bites his hipbone, scratches his biceps.

Bond asks, "May I touch?" and then, given permission, makes appreciative noises and lets his hands roam over Q's skin while Q touches and hurts him.

"How did you find Matthew?" Bond eventually asks.

"It was in his file."

"Quite comprehensive, that file."

Q lifts his head from where he'd been biting his way down Bond's thigh. "Can't use it as blackmail if we already know about it."

Bond makes an acknowledging noise. "And what does your file say?"

"Why should my file say anything? I'm only performing the duties of the quartermaster." Q follows that up with a bite into the meat of Bond's thigh. "I can find someone else if you'd rather. I do hope you're not disappointed I'm not wielding the whip myself."

"No," Bond says. "He's very good. It's good to have you giving the orders."

It's a rush, hearing him say that.

Then Bond follows it up with, "Will you allow me to suck your cock?"

Q takes stock of his body. He'll be able to get it up again, and in not too long. He tells Bond, "In a bit," and licks over his jugular. "What if I leave a mark?"

Bond bares his neck to him. "No one will be surprised to see me with a love bite."

"I'm not sure love is the right word," Q says, but he does leave the mark on Bond's neck.

Bond's hair is too short to be satisfying to pull; Q settles for scraping his fingernails over Bond's shoulders while Bond sucks his cock.

Bond spreads himself out next to Q after, on his stomach this time, which gives Q a view of his unmarked back between the scratches over his shoulders and the redness of his arse. Bond shivers when Q runs his fingers lightly down that unmarked skin.

"Shall I make you come again?" Q asks.

Bond rubs his cheek against Q's sheets and turns to look at him. "I'm afraid I've reached the age where I need a bit more recovery time."

"Very well." Q pats Bond's reddened arse. "In the morning, then, if I feel like it."

*

They add rewards to their system. Bond brings takeaway for dinner and Q snogs him on the sofa for twenty minutes after they eat before sending him home hard. Bond returns all his equipment and Q spanks him. Bond brings Q a CIA prototype he's been trying to get his hands on with his equipment and Q guides Bond through fucking him just the way he likes.

The addition of rewards in no way diminishes Bond's penchant for doing things that earn him punishments, and Q goes on another shopping trip with Matthew. They buy a single-tail whip, a cane, a riding crop, and a paddle. They experiment. Bond likes the whip, tolerates the riding crop, dislikes the cane but will take it if Q orders him to.

The first time they use the paddle, Matthew orders Bond to strip and bend over an expanse of workbench Q left empty for this very purpose. Bond's fingers press hard into the surface of the bench as Matthew hits him, his hands and arms flexing. Q watches the bunching of his muscles as much as he watches the paddle thud against his arse. It's more like his reaction to Q spanking him than his reaction to Matthew dispensing discipline.

Bond comes before Matthew finishes the allotted number of strokes.

Q catches his breath as silently as he can; Bond's probably too distracted by coming to notice anyway.

Matthew finishes and steps back, leaving Bond draped over Q's workbench with a beautifully reddened arse.

Q gets himself under control and steps forward. "You've made a mess out of my workbench."

Bond stands at Q's gesture. His cock is wet and softening, his eyes dark.

Q looks at him for a moment, drinking in what Bond looks like, what they've done to him. Then he points at the sink across the room. "Clean up your mess." He joins Matthew at the cupboard they're using to store their equipment in, and they both turn to watch Bond once the paddle is locked away with their other implements.

"He liked that," Matthew murmurs. "He'd take a spanking beautifully."

"Oh, he does," Q says.

Matthew's eyebrows go up. "Have you been disciplining him yourself?"

"Oh no." Q can't quite make himself refrain from smirking. "Spankings are only for rewards." He steps away to inspect Bond's work. He's disinfected the bench well enough; Q rarely uses his reserved lab for anything that will interact with biological manner in dangerous or unexpected ways.

"Put your clothes on," Q orders Bond sharply. It's a shame to watch his skin slowly being covered up, but the hazy, languid quality to his movements goes a long way toward making up for it. So does the pliant look on Bond's face when he turns to Q for further orders.

Q leads him out of the room, through the halls, and into his office. "Sit." The chair he points Bond to is a hard, wooden one.

Bond's mouth drops open and he gives a satisfying, if brief, gasp as his arse comes into contact with the seat of the chair.

Q bends close to him. "You came all over my workbench without permission during a punishment," he says. "I suggest you think about ways to make it up to me later."

He dismisses Bond after he's come back to himself, and goes home at a reasonable hour.

It means he's waiting when Bond shows up at his flat with takeaway and a small gift bag for Q.

The bag holds a small box. Q holds it up. "I do hope you aren't treating me the way you would treat a woman who needed to be placated."

"It's not as if I bought you diamond earrings," Bond says.

Q opens the box while Bond puts their dinner on plates. There's a small strip of leather with a trio of snaps nestled into the tissue paper. Q holds it up with a questioning look at Bond.

"You did seem displeased that I came without permission."

Q blinks at the leather, and the picture of what it's for becomes clear in his mind. He puts it back in the box, sets the box aside, and accepts his plate from Bond. "I suppose you think bringing dinner earns you that."

"I did hope," Bond says.

They eat on the couch, the box with the cock ring on the side table at Q's elbow.

Q sends Bond to the kitchen with their plates and guides him to stand in front of Q, between his legs, when he returns.

Q opens Bond's trousers and takes out his cock. He strokes it just enough for Bond to get fully hard, which takes a gratifyingly short time. Then he takes the cock ring out of its box, wraps it around the base of Bond's cock, and snaps it closed.

He looks up at Bond. "Good?"

Bond's "Yes" is half hiss.

Q pushes at Bond's hips, then his shoulders when he gets low enough, until Bond is on his knees between Q's legs. Q opens his trousers and takes out his cock. He guides Bond forward with a hand on the back of his head, and Bond wastes no time in taking his cock into the wet heat of his mouth.

Q doesn't bother trying to hurt Bond as he sucks him off. He thinks only of his own pleasure, of how good it feels, how good Bond looks doing it. He watches the hollowing of Bond's cheeks, the stretch of his lips, the brief moments when he closes his eyes.

Bond swallows everything neatly when Q comes.

Q pets his hair, his cheeks. Then he tucks himself back in and tugs at Bond's shoulders to make him stand. He touches Bond's cock only enough to take the cock ring off and tuck his cock back in. He zips and buttons Bond's trousers and pats his hip.

"We're done here."

Bond closes his eyes for a moment, which does nothing to hide how turned on he is. "You are very, very good at this." He leans down, and Q lets him, tips his head up to accept, deepen, and then take over control of the almost worshipful kiss Bond gives him.

Q gropes Bond's arse for good measure, then pushes him away. "Good night, James."

Bond shudders, and Q has the pleasure of watching as he pulls himself together with visible effort before leaving.

*

Q's on the comms, Mallory and Tanner standing behind him, when Bond gets shot. Bond cries out once, there's a pause in the sound coming over the line, and then there's more shooting.

Bond ignores Mallory's order to report and says, "Yes, left shoulder," when Q asks if he can move.

Q sets aside his sudden, surprising fury that someone dared to hurt Bond without his permission, and sets to finding him a way out of there.

Q succeeds, Mallory sends a team to retrieve Bond, and fifteen hours later Bond is in Medical, out of surgery, and protesting Mallory's order that he stay until he's recovered.

"You will," Mallory says. "That's an order."

"He'll stay until I'm ready to leave," Q says. "Then Medical will release him to my care."

Bond gives him a sharp nod of agreement. Mallory frowns at him.

"Don't be ridiculous," Mallory says. "He needs to be in Medical."

"He's fully capable of escaping Medical unless you put him into a coma," Q says. "I'm fully capable of handling an injured agent."

"Do you know," Bond says, "in the golden age of piracy, the quartermaster could overrule the captain when not on a mission?"

Mallory stares at Bond, then turns a sharp look on Q.

"I'm hardly about to start a mutiny," Q says. "I've no wish to do your job. I can, however, make sure he doesn't reinjure himself or mix painkillers and alcohol."

Mallory does the government functionary version of throwing up his hands and leaves Q to it.

"I'll be a few hours," Q tells Bond. "Do not terrorize the medical staff. I'll get you when it's time to go."

Bond accepts his order, and Q returns a few hours later to find him dressed and waiting.

Q summons the doctor and gets both Bond's medications and discharge orders.

"I expect he won't follow these," the doctor says when he hands over instructions for Bond to follow until his shoulder has healed.

"He will," Q says firmly.

"Taking advantage of the executive perks?" Bond asks when they get into an MI6 car with a driver to take them home.

"I considered the Tube," Q says, "but it seemed unwise until you're off the painkillers."

Q has the driver drop them off two blocks from his flat, where they get takeaway curry and walk the rest of the way. They eat on the sofa, and then go to the bedroom where Q helps Bond get out of his clothes while moving his left arm as little as possible.

"Into bed," Q orders when the only thing Bond is wearing is the sling holding his arm in place.

Q strips while Bond makes himself comfortable, and then gets into bed on Bond's uninjured right side.

"I can't tell," Bond says as Q curls as close as he can while avoiding any further injury to Bond, "if this is meant to be a punishment or a reward."

Q presses his lips to Bond's temple. "Neither. Consider this maintenance of a sort. Improperly maintained equipment is bound to fail."

"Very well, then," Bond says. "I trust you're familiar with the proper maintenance techniques."

Bond demonstrates that trust for three days, obeying the doctor's instructions as Q relays them to him and taking his medication.

Then he strolls into Q Branch in a suit, leans on the edge of the table Q's working at, and says, "I'm afraid I have no equipment to return."

Q presses his lips together. Then, too angry to trust himself to say anything else, snaps only, "Matthew," and trusts Bond and Matthew to follow him.

Q all but slams his hand against the palm print reader to open their storage cupboard. He takes out the cane.

"Trousers and pants off," Matthew orders Bond. "Stand against the wall."

It takes longer than usual; Bond only has the use of one hand and neither Q nor Matthew offer to help. Q does, once Bond is facing the wall with his right arm up along it to brace himself, pull up the back of Bond's shirt and suit jacket so they're out of the way.

"I think you've forgotten," Q says, unable to keep his fury wholly out of his voice, "that your body is also my equipment to be returned in one piece." He tweaks James's lapel. "You will not impede your healing with unnecessary movement of your arm."

He steps back and nods to Matthew.

"Ten," Matthew says. "Count them."

Bond does, with terse numbers that match the straight lines Matthew makes across his arse.

Bond doesn't move when they're done. He paints quite a picture with the red lines across his arse, one arm up against the wall, the other held close to his chest by the sling.

It takes Q a moment to let his anger dissipate before he goes to check on Bond.

Bond rolls his head to look at him. His eyes are dark, and something Q didn't realize was anything other than pain has softened in his features.

Q cups the back of his head, rubs his thumb against Bond's cheek. Then he lets go and steps back. "Get dressed."

He wants nothing more, when they return to the rest of Q Branch, than to put Bond on his knees. He settles for putting him in a hard chair until they go home together.

At home, Bond calls for takeaway, and keeps his left arm as still as possible when Q undresses him and helps into more comfortable clothes for the evening. Q pushes him down onto his knees after dinner, and stands over him.

"I suppose your compliance has earned a reward." Q takes his cock out. "You're not to touch me or yourself unless it's to prevent one of us from further injuring your shoulder."

Bond nods his understanding, and then opens his mouth for Q's cock.

Q fucks his mouth hard and fast, taking what he wants as recompense for all the worry and anger this particular escapade of Bond's has caused him. Bond takes it all, looks up at him with trusting blue eyes.

It's too much at the last moment, and Q has to close his eyes as he comes lest he shatter to bits.

Bond's breath is just as heavy as his. Q nudges Bond's knee with his foot.

"Get your cock out."

With only one hand, Bond's movements lack his usual grace. For all that Q would prefer him to be uninjured, it's rather satisfying to watch him work for it.

"Make yourself come." Q cups the back of Bond's head. "I've punished you, I've rewarded you, I've given you orders to follow, and now I want to see you come, James."

Bond strokes himself quickly, makes noise as he does, and leans his forehead against Q's thigh after he comes.

"That's it," Q says. "You can be so perfectly obedient when you want to."

Bond tips his head up. "That is rather the point."

"Yes," Q says. "I had gathered that you only respect the authority of the quartermaster because you choose to." He bends over to kiss the top of Bond's head. "Let's get you cleaned up and into bed. You're still recovering after all."

*

Bond doesn't leave after his shoulder fully heals. He continues to sleep in Q's bed, do his physiotherapy exercises in Q's living room, rotate a selection of suits in and out of Q's closet. Q hurts him for fun when they both feel like it, and has Matthew hurt him when Bond brings him reasons to. It's all very domestic.

On an evening when Bond's checking over an array of weapons spread out on the coffee table - two guns and half a dozen knives - and Q's at his workbench hacking Netflix to improve its recommendation algorithm just for fun, Q asks, "Do you need more space?"

Bond glances up at him. "Weapons maintenance doesn't require much space."

That isn't precisely what Q meant. It seems his best option is to be direct in a way they generally aren't when Q isn't delivering orders. "Should we get a larger flat, do you think?"

Bond looks at him sharply, then returns his attention to his gun. "You're the quartermaster," he says. "Distribution of proper resources is up to you."

It sounds like a no, or an abstention, but Q's learned to read Bond's tells, and his deferral to Q means he wants the larger flat.

"You'll have to come along," Q says, "to provide a security evaluation."

"Naturally," Bond agrees.

MI6's estate agent shows them seven flats. Bond rejects two on the basis of security risks he points out to Q and two more with a dismissively stated, "Security issues." Q rejects another on the basis that he just doesn't like it. It leaves them with two viable choices. One of them has the advantages of being close to Vauxhall Cross and offering a gorgeous view of the city.

The estate agent's heels clip along as she takes them through the other. Open living room like Q's current flat, but larger. Space enough for Q's workbench and some sort of weapons storage and maintenance area for Bond. A pair of large closets in the master bedroom, surely enough space for even Bond's wardrobe.

"And then there's this." The estate agent opens a pair of doors in the hallway that Q initially assumed concealed a linen closet or something similar. "One of the previous owners had some security concerns." She punches a completely insecure code - 1234 - into the keypad on a steel door. It swings open to a room approximately the size of the bedroom in Q's current flat. It must take up the entire center of the flat.

"The security system for the safe room is completely programmable, of course," the estate agent says.

Q steps into the room. Bond comes with him. He has to be seeing the same things Q is. Securable space. Storage, for weapons and provisions. Space enough for Q to set up monitors for the security system.

Bond taps on a few of the walls, peers up at the ceiling. "Soundproofing," he says to Q. "Steel exterior. Floor and ceiling as well?" he asks the estate agent, who nods a confirmation.

Soundproofing. Useful if Q ever wants to see just how much he can make James react to being hurt by only Q's hands and mouth. "Separate ventilation system?"

"Yes," the estate agent answers. "I can get you the detailed specs if you like."

Q looks to Bond. "Security concerns?"

Bond's a picture of relaxed confidence as he says, "Not a one."

Q nods and turns to the estate agent. "We'll need those specs of course. We're taking the flat." He doesn't, strictly speaking, need the specs, but it will make it easier for him to make his own modifications to the room if he knows what's already been done.

The process of purchasing the flat is expedited by virtue of their positions in MI6, and soon enough they're choosing what to bring to it. They keep Q's sofa, Bond's dining table, Q's workbench, Bond's liquor cabinet, Bond's bed.

"I ought to punish you," Q says of the bed, "for not sharing this with me before." It's large, sinfully comfortable, the perfect firmness for both sleeping and fucking Bond on.

"If you must," Bond says.

Q takes Bond and one of the dining chairs into the so far only partially reprogrammed panic room. He locks the door behind them and orders Bond to strip, then to lay himself out over Q's knees.

Bond yells more and louder than he has before when Q spanks him, and he arches desperately into it when Q pushes him to the floor and chokes him with his cock. He swallows when Q comes, and only lets Q's cock out of his mouth when Q forces him to.

Q looks down on Bond, red face and hard cock. "Touch yourself."

Bond obediently wraps his hand around his cock, and Q drops to his knees in front of him.

"Yes," Q says, desperate and breathless even though he's already come. He digs the fingernails of one hand into Bond's thigh and wraps the other around the back of his head while he kisses him. "That's it, James. Do it harder. Make yourself come. I need to see you come."

Bond presses into Q's touches, his kiss. "Is that an order?"

Q switches hands, scratching lines up Bond's other thigh. "You know it is. Don't disobey me, James."

Bond gasps, "I wouldn't dream of it," and then he stops talking and makes himself come.

It's not enough. Q pushes him back, onto the floor, and stretches out over him, kissing him over and over again.

Bond's arms wrap around him, holding them as close together as they can possibly get.

"James," Q says.

"Yes," Bond says. "Q. My quartermaster."

And that, that was what Q needed. He kisses Bond hard, teeth clashing, and then rests his forehead against Bond's. "Lube and condoms," he says. He moves a little, and makes a face. "And wet wipes. I won't leave us improperly provisioned in here."

"I know you won't." Bond presses his lips to Q's cheek and holds them there for a moment. "You're an excellent quartermaster."

Q rubs his thumb along Bond's cheekbone. "Yes," he says, "I am."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Chiefly Responsible for Discipline](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7768144) by [3MarcMolin18](https://archiveofourown.org/users/3MarcMolin18/pseuds/3MarcMolin18)




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